Authors: Ron Miller
“Yes,” agreed Bradamant, “the poor princess.”
“Well, then,” the abbot said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his broad stomach, “I must confess I’m anxious to hear your story! I’m sure it must be thrilling!”
Bradamant did not know that she was equally anxious to tell it, nor was she certain how thrilling it was, and tried to decide exactly how much the abbot actually needed to know. There was much she would prefer he never knew—probably those very parts he would consider most “thrilling.” She had little experience at dissembling, especially to a priest, but neither did she feel at all comfortable baring the depth of her feelings about Rashid—and certainly not what had nearly come to pass at Atalante’s château. She squirmed a little in her chair as she arranged her thoughts while the abbot looked on, smiling gently in unhelpful silence. In stumbling words, she told him her history, about her wounding for the sake of the unknown pagan knight, about losing and finding him again and the promised rendezvous at Vallambrosa. She told him of discovering Merlin’s subterranean palace and of the friend she had found in Melissa (he frowned at that and jotted a note, though Bradamant scarcely noticed this). She told him of Rashid’s promise to convert to Christianity for her sake. She did not tell the abbot about her dreams.
“You’ve been having quite an adventure, haven’t you?” the abbot said when she had finished.
“I suppose I have,” she replied.
“I’m very impressed by your perseverance. But you’ve told me a few things I also find, well, quite disturbing.”
“Disturbing, Father?”
“Well, yes. All of these dealings with the sorcerer Merlin, for instance, and this sorceress, ah,” he glanced at his notes, “Melissa. These are unchristian things and therefore can come to little good, my dear.”
“But Merlin and Melissa helped me find Rashid and in turn I’m bringing Rashid to the Church. That must be a worthy end to their help. Besides, their prophecies were that the descendants of Rashid and myself are to bring great credit to the Church and to Frankland and Italia.”
“True, true . . . but at what
cost?
We don’t know
that
, do we?”
“No, but—”
“Satan sometimes enacts a grave toll for his gifts.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And the dereliction of your sworn duty: this is a serious matter, as well. Very serious. You put your own desires—carnal desires—ahead of your obligations. You forgot your allegiance to his most Christian majesty, the emperor Karl, in order to pursue this pagan knight—and you admit yourself that it was not part of your original goal to bring him to the Church. No, I suspect you truly want him for more, shall we say, um, personal reasons? That these more commendable motives are only later rationalizations?”
“I—”
“Well, never mind for the moment; this is really not the time nor place for this sort of discussion. I would suggest you think these matters over, however, and perhaps we can find an appropriate time and place for a talk?”
“I suppose so.”
“Excellent! Well, then, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t remain here as long as you wish. If your Rashid is all you say he is, then he will eventually come. Until then, you are most welcome.”
“Thank you, Father, you’re very kind.”
“It’s nothing, my dear, absolutely nothing.”
Days passed, then weeks, then a month, with neither word nor sign of Bradamant’s lover. Afraid of her proclivity for morbid brooding when alone or bored, she shunned her cell except to sleep and did her best to end every day exhausted. Begging a simple shift and headrail from one of the serf’s wives, she toiled alongside the other women, barefoot in the gardens, every day until her hair was bleached to the color of pine shavings and her face grew browner and leaner than ever. On days when it rained, or in the evenings, she helped cure leather or cut it into all sorts of useful objects, or she would pound sheepskin into parchment, of which the monks used prodigious amounts, or scrape palimpsests, or she would spin wool or flax, or make coarse cloth on the looms. She wasn’t very good at any of these things but she was willing to learn and was eventually able to do her jobs with an indefatigable workmanlike mechanicalness that she preferred, in any case, to genuine enthusiasm. While no one could honestly praise her work, neither could anyone honestly fault it. When she could persuade one of the monks into relinquishing his place to her, she would work acres of soil, helping the panting oxen drive a massive plow or harrow through the heavy clay. Later she would help sow the beans, peas, barley, wheat, oats and rye that served the monks for the greater part of their sustenance. There was little meat other than that provided by the few chickens, pigs and sheep until early winter when the oxen would be slaughtered. Then there was much work with butchering and preserving.
But in spite of all this labor she still could not sleep. Every morning she lay awake, waiting for the first glimmerings of dawn. Then, at that first sign of day, she became no less anxious for nightfall. Her physical labor ought to have made the days and weeks evaporate like daydreams, but she was acutely aware of every passing moment. Her every heartbeat seemed to endure with the prolonged deliberation of a pendulum.
Though the monastery’s order did not seem very strict, and the monks were cordial enough, even friendly, she did not encourage conversation and, eventually, they gave up the effort and she was left completely alone. She tried her best to avoid the abbot—who took every opportunity to insinuate doubts about Rashid into her mind—but with less success. She was no theologian and an even worse debater. While she felt she was a devout Christian, she was, like many, if not most, other equally devout Christians not particularly knowledgeable about her faith; if she thought much about it at all, her conclusion would have been that faith, by definition, was sufficient. The abbot’s logic and learning left her tongue-tied and confused; she did not like being unable to defend herself against the mistrust in herself and in Rashid that the abbot so skillfully created. And the longer it took for her to work out a counter-argument, the longer had the abbot’s doubts to work their subtle sabotage. And the more frustrated and tongue-tied she became, the angrier she got. There was not a soul in the world with whom she would have hesitated crossing swords—but in crossing
words
she was as helpless and defenseless as a child. Each night, in her prayers, she reaffirmed her faith in her lover and their love, trying to ignore the disloyalty, duplicity and heresy she was becoming increasingly convinced she was committing.
The abbot, no doubt with the best intentions, grasped every opportunity to goad Bradamant into debate—something that she loathed, particularly when she felt as though she were being forced to defend her most private feelings, actions or motives. She was neither eloquent nor facile in her speech and since her thoughts were always deliberately and carefully considered, she was perpetually many steps behind the abbot’s quick, practiced mind. For his part, the abbot’s arguments tended toward forcing the girl to defend her love for the pagan Rashid, or to justify her predilection for such ostensibly masculine dress and activities as armor and making war, activities of which he obviously did not approve.
“You must know, Lady Bradamant,” one debate began, “that the head of Christ is God and the head of every man is Christ, but the head of every woman is man.”
“But Father, I’m
capable
of doing more than most men—why should I defer to someone who is less capable than I?”
“Because it doesn’t
matter
of what you are or are not capable. If you wish to truly please God, you can’t do this by trying to become a man, or, worse yet, to become better than a man. That would in a very real sense be blasphemous. Corinthians tells us very unambiguously that a man ‘is the image and glory of God: but the woman is the glory of the man’. To aspire to man-like things is to aspire to His image and glory—a certain blasphemy.”
“But, Father,” she replied, feverishly flipping through the monk’s huge bible, “uh, doesn’t—ah—Corinthians also say that, yes, that neither the man nor the woman are complete without the other? That, uh, ‘as the woman is of the man, even so is the man also by the woman; but all things of God.’ That certainly seems to imply an equality, so I would think.”
“That’s true enough, Lady Bradamant, but that doesn’t permit one to
become
the other. Man and woman are separate and untransmutable. And doesn’t Timothy enjoin you,” he continued, adroitly changing the subject, “to adorn yourself in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety? Didn’t Paul adjure you not to wear that which pertaineth unto a man? Do you consider that the brilliant armor you wear, or the tunic and trousers you wear beneath—and which I myself have seen you immodestly wear by themselves with no other garment to conceal them—, to be seemly dress for a Christian woman?”
“It’s
practical
, Father; it’d be impossible to fight or ride a war horse in a dress! Besides, I
am
covered; no one can see anything they shouldn’t.”
“There! Do you see? Your argument is circular! You are using one infelicity to justify a second in order to justify the first.”
“Well, then, look here, Father. In One Timothy, chapter two, verse ten he says that a woman should clothe herself with good works! Isn’t that what I’ve been doing? What better work could there be than ridding Christian Europe of the heathen Moors?”
“Keep reading, my lady. Doesn’t Timothy go on to say that you ought not to usurp authority over men? And doesn’t Corinthians also tell you that if you want to learn anything, that you should ask your husband?”
“Why are you even discussing this with me?” she replied angrily, losing her temper and slamming closed the heavy cover of the book—and even angrier for having done that, “Doesn’t Corinthians also tell you that it’s a shame for a woman to speak in a church?”
“Well, my dear, this isn’t a church . . .”
Bradamant turned from the book stand and paced furiously, her hands clasped behind her back, her long strides measuring the length and breadth of the room like a pair of calipers. “If you believe these things, Father,” she said, stopping before his chair, “than you must also believe Tertullian and Paul! That it’s woman’s fault that Man fell, that we were the first to desert the divine law, that we, who are so flawed and weak, so easily destroyed that magnificent image of God that is Man! That on account of this desertion even the Son of God had to die! You credit us with all the power you deny us!” She leaned over the still-smiling cleric, her hands grasping the arms of his chair, her long nose descending toward his face like an executioner’s axe. “You dare look me in the eye and accuse
me
of being responsible for the crucifixion of Christ?”
“Lady Bradamant! Please! There’s no reason to lose your temper!”
“Pray that I don’t, Father!”
“My dear Lady! . . .”
“How can you sit in such sanctimonious judgement upon me and my emotions? Look at this book! It’s a catalog of horrors committed upon women! Look! Here’s Amnon’s incestuous rape of his half-sister! Lot having children by his own daughters! Reuben’s rape of his father’s mistress! Absalom’s rape of his father’s
ten
mistresses—both of which sound far too much like incest for my liking! And what of David’s adultery with Bathsheba? Or of his love affair with Jonathon for that matter? What of the man in Judges who gave his own wife and daughter to a drunken mob to be raped all night long? How do you expect me to accept these things as right and just, to accept that I’m less than the weakest coward—ignorant, puling, little better than a farm animal—that I’m less than the serf who worships his lord with the same dumb, unquestioning obedience of a dog—that I should accept this for no better reason than the biological accident that makes me a woman and he a man?”
“Because the Bible tells you so, my Lady.”
This sort of conversation, or any one of dozens like it, occurred nearly every day; and not once, but every time the abbot managed to maneuver Bradamant into his company—not at all a difficult thing to do given the intimate confines of the abbey. And every night she would have to traitorously reaffirm her belief in herself and in Rashid; but it was as though she were building a wall with bricks and stones that became ever heavier and heaver—and all while the abbot was patiently picking away at the mortar.
Yes!
she would pray,
I have done the right thing in donning armor in the defense of my country and faith! No! I’ve done nothing wrong by being in love with Rashid! Yes! I can lead men because I
am
stronger and wiser! No! Rashid has not agreed to be baptized only to please me! No! I will not stay in my place unless I have made that place myself!
until the prayers became no longer supplications but manifestos, challenges and defiances flung into the face of God Himself. And one night her prayer was followed by a disturbing dream in which she faced God on a tournament field. She awoke in a sweat just as the golden point of her lance touched that great steel-plated chest.
Bradamant considered herself in exile, a prisoner looking forward to the coming day of her release. In order to escape the abbot’s incessant harassment that was eroding her resolve and her faith in Rashid as gradually and inexorably as the sea eats away the rocky cliffs that bind it, she would every day find some spare time to climb to the top of the abbey’s tower, from which vantage she would scrutinize every detail of the broad landscape. Every metallic glint, every movement on the road, anything that might be a lone knight, she thought must be her belated Rashid. If it were an unarmed person or someone on foot, she would assume it must be a messenger sent by her lover. And when all of these hopes proved baseless, as they did invariably, she invented new ones. More than once she donned her armor, climbed upon Rabican’s back and set off down the dusty road to meet Rashid. But before she had traveled more than a mile from the abbey she would begin to worry that perhaps Rashid might be at that very moment arriving at Vallambrosa by a different route. She would then race back, drawn by the very longing that had lured her away. And always she found him neither at the monastery nor on the road.